The Fast and the Furriest (16 page)

“You both had to be pretty good, it sounds like.”

“I guess.”

“You guess a lot, eh?”

They sat quietly for a moment.

“I really do wish I could go on Thursday,” Izzy said.

“It’s okay.” Kevin shrugged. “It’s not like I can go to your soccer thing, either.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been to, like, a billion of my soccer games.”

“In some pretty awful places,” he reminded her.

Izzy grinned.

“Remember that one last winter in …”

“… Champaign?” Izzy said. “Yeah, that was miserable.”

“No, I was thinking of the one in …”

“… Ann Arbor? Where the slide at the hotel pool broke? With me on it?”

“Yup, that’s the one.”

“Yeah, that stunk, too.”

Kevin ran his finger down a thick reddish line within the plaid of the couch.

“We won that tournament, though,” said his sister.

“You always win, Izzy.”

“Nuh-uh,” she said, popping off the couch and doing a handstand. “We lost at Grant Park that one time.”

“You were six.”

“So?”

“So you were playing against nine-year-olds.”

“Whatever.”

“And they were boys.”

She came out of the handstand and hopped back on the couch, then swung her feet atop Kevin’s legs.

“Bet you and Cromwell win that thing.”

Kevin laughed, somewhat bitterly.

“What’s the joke?” asked Izzy.

“First of all, it’s kind of a fluke that we’ve even qualified. Cromwell and I never had a run that was half as good as that one—no, not even a quarter as good. It was insane.”

“Dad says that when you do something once, you own it. You have the skill. No one can take it away.”

“So?” asked Kevin.

“So as good as you and Cromwell were … well, that’s how good you
are
. And that’s how good you can be again. Whenever. You’ve just got to …”

“Believe? Practice? Visualize? Hustle?” Kevin shook his head. “Right. I’ve heard the speeches, Iz.” Kevin broke into a fair impression of his dad’s thick Chicago accent: “‘Repetition, kid. Visualization.
Dat’s
da key.’”

She giggled. “It’s true.”

“I don’t even know if we should go on Thursday,” Kevin said.

Izzy’s mouth fell open and she leapt up from the couch.

“Kevin! You can’t
quit
! What about Cromwell?” She stroked the dog’s fur. “You have to do it!”

“Well, you’re the only one sayin’ that in this house. Do you honestly think Mom and Dad give a hoot about the Midwest Whatever-It-Is dog agility championships?” He stared at his sister. “They don’t, Iz. They’ve hardly said a word since the BFR.”

“Dad’s just got football and radio and stuff. It’s Bears training camp time. And we had that soccer thing on the schedule—not that there isn’t always soccer on the schedule.” She curled herself up and cannonballed back onto the couch. “And I think they’re really just total soccer geeks at this point.”

“Mom and Dad are total soccer geeks because you
win
, Izzy. You win all the time. You win tournaments, you win MVP awards, you win big giant trophies, not silly little bone-shaped things.” Kevin shook his head. “Dad gets to bask in the reflected light of your winner-ness—and he loves it. That’s why they’re soccer geeks. You
win
, Iz.”

“I think they’re just soccer geeks because I try.”

“Face it, Izzy. You’re a winner. I’m really not. I won once, by accident.”

“I’m not just some automatic winner, Kevin. I practice, I …”

“You win. You’re a winner. There are eight hundred awards upstairs to prove it.”

“You can’t win your eight-hundredth award unless you’ve won your first.” She held up the trophy and smiled. “And you can’t win your first if you don’t try.”

“Trying is
hard
, Iz.”

“Success is in the trying, not the triumph.”

Kevin stared at her. “Seriously, do you ever run out of Dad’s lame clichés?”

Izzy smiled. “When the going gets tough …”

“… the tough use slogans.”

Izzy balanced the trophy on her left foot for several seconds, concentrating, then flicked it in the air and caught it. “Anyway,” she finally said, “I’m very happy about you and Cromwell.”

She skipped upstairs, leaving Kevin to his couch, his exhausted dog, and their trophy.

He would have called Zach to solicit an opinion on participation in the MKC event, but he already knew what Zach would say: Team Cromwell must compete, can’t be stopped, rules the universe, has dominion over all dogs, et cetera.

Kevin could confidently say that he had Zach’s full support. And Izzy’s. They were definitely not the issue.

He tried to watch TV, but failed. Gaming, eating, and, as a last resort, reading all met with similar failure. Eventually, he went upstairs and tried sleep. That did not come easily, either. When it finally did, he dreamt that he was on the asphalt playground of his old elementary school, playing tag, totally unable to touch anyone. He was It, possibly forever. He chased Jody, his sister, Shasta, his father, various characters from cereal ads—Tony the Tiger, the Trix rabbit, Count Chocula—kids from his class, both Brad Ainsworths … and Kevin caught none of them, ever.

They claimed various objects as base, then stood and mocked him—stupid base, he thought. Worst part of tag. Count Chocula’s comments were particularly stinging:
“Geev up, faht boy,”
he said in that Transylvanian way of his. Elka’s voice spat instructions, though Kevin couldn’t see her. Cromwell barked, though he, too, was out of sight.

Kevin woke up sweat-drenched and breathless, his heart racing. He checked his surroundings, slowly recognizing that he was not actually trapped in a game of unwinnable tag. He was in his room. It was still completely dark outside. No moonlight, no sound.

Kevin eyed his clock: 3:59.

Then it flipped to 4:00.

Kevin looked down to the foot of his bed. Cromwell was staring back at him.

“You think our agility careers just peaked, boy?”

They stared at one another for a long moment, locked in some sort of nonverbal but not meaningless dialogue.

“No, me neither.”

And then Kevin swept the covers off the bed, adjusted his pajamas, yawned, and said, “Okay, Crom, let’s go.”

The dog hopped off the bed as though he were dismounting an apparatus. Then he led the way through the hall, down the stairs, and into the backyard in the
pitch-black predawn. Kevin flipped on an outdoor floodlight, illuminating the yard.

Cromwell bounced up and down anxiously. He whined, and Kevin shushed him.

Then Kevin dragged several old toys from the garage, arranging them—along with patio furniture and a few lawn-care implements—into a suitable obstacle course for the dog. He and Cromwell ran the makeshift course repeatedly over the next ninety minutes, Kevin urging his dog along in a whisper. He extracted Cromwell from the tire swing at least half a dozen times.

Had he ever looked up toward his sister’s bedroom window, he might have seen her nose pressed against it while she watched her brother down below.

A
fter returning to bed just after 5:30 a.m., Kevin slept soundly. When he blinked his eyes open again, the bedroom clock said 10:49.

He wiped the sleep from his eyes, yawned, stretched, jostled his dog awake, and both plodded out into the hallway and stumbled sleepily downstairs. Kevin stopped halfway down the steps when he heard the voices of Izzy and his dad below. Izzy was using her on-field voice. Normally those two just used sports references and told each other unfunny jokes. They didn’t argue, ever.

Until that morning.

Kevin sat on the stairs, listening, with Cromwell on his lap.

“One time!” said Izzy. “I just mean one lousy
time—one lousy game that they can probably win anyway.”

“Iz, this is crazy,” said Howie. “And I wouldn’t expect it from you. I thought you were serious about the soccer.”

“I
am
serious!” she declared. “But how often do Kevin and Cromwell have something this important?”

“Now you’re making
my
point,” said Howie, slurping what Kevin suspected was milk from a cereal bowl. “For you, soccer is a long-term commitment, Iz. And when you commit to a thing like that—more importantly, when you commit to a
team—
you honor the commitment.” He paused. “You honor it every day. Not just when it’s convenient.”

“But …”

“That’s like a sacred commitment you have to the Under-Eleven All-Stars, kid.
Sacred
. A bond forged in blood and tears. Like with warriors. You’re comrades in battle, everyone doing their …”

Kevin heard his mom laugh.

“There’s been no bleeding, dear,” she said. “Or swords, or weapons of any kind. You’re laying it on a little thick.”

Thank you, Mom
.

“It’s a metaphor,” said Howie. “And a very popular one. War and sports—I didn’t make this up. Izzy, these kids you’ll be facing at that tournament … well, they’re the best U-11’s from a six-state area. The most
talented kids in the region. That’s a big deal. If you want to be the best, you gotta beat the best.”

Kevin smirked, recalling that his financier had said the same thing. Howie continued.

“And if you want to
beat
the best, you have to face ’em, kid. You never duck a challenge.”

“But wouldn’t the same thing apply to Kevin and Cromwell?” asked Izzy.

“A fair point,” said Maggie.

Yeah!
thought Kevin, the stair creaking slightly beneath him.
Tell it, ladies
.

“No, actually,” said Howie. “It’s different with dogs, hon.”

Kevin’s shoulders dropped.

“How could it be different with dogs?” protested Izzy.

“Different species, Iz. More legs. Different rules. Like for instance, there’s no Ditka equivalent in the dog world. It’s just different.” He chewed a mouthful of cereal. Kevin could hear his spoon clanking against the bowl.

“How does Coach Ditka have any—?” began Izzy.

“And besides,” continued her dad, “no disrespect intended to Cromwell, but, well … c’mon. You’ve spent your whole life working toward …”

“I’m ten, Dad. My whole life is ten years long. Let’s not get carried away.”

Cromwell works hard, too, Dad
.

“And you’ve spent most of those ten years working really hard at soccer. Every day, kicking in the backyard, at the park, in the basement. Nerf balls, rubber balls, regulation balls. Dribbling, kicking, shooting, passing … every day. Your mother and I have been there with you, too, kid.” He chewed a little more, then continued. “How long have Cromwell and Kevin spent with the dog training? A month?”

“But it’s in
dog
months,” said Izzy. “So they’re longer. One month for a human is like seven months for a dog, I think. We’re talking about a big chunk of Crom’s life here, Dad.”

Oh. That’s kinda dark
. Kevin reflexively shielded Cromwell’s ears.

“Be that as it may,” said Howie, “for Kevin it’s still only been a month. That’s not the same kinda commitment you have. Not at all … not even close, in fact.”

Izzy didn’t respond.

Kevin slumped back against the stairs.
How can I reason with that?

Cromwell wagged his tail, oblivious to the details of the conversation below.

“And I’ll tell you another thing,” said Howie, his voice rising slightly. “Kevin didn’t even tell his mother and me about these dog show classes.”

“It’s dog
agility
,” Maggie reminded him. “Not dog
show
. We’ve been corrected on this point before, and it really gets to Kevin. So please remember:
agility
.”

“Well, how would we know?” demanded Howie. “Kevin hid it from us all this time!”

“He tried to ask you,” said Izzy. “Remember, he wanted to take the classes; you said …”

“I said I wouldn’t
pay
for ’em, not until Kevin could convince me of the practical benefits.” More muffled crunching sounds. “Or until he could convince me that he was serious about it. But did we hear another word?” Crunch, crunch. “No.” Crunch, crunch. “Not until little Bradley Ainsworth spilled his guts.”

“The little rat,” said Izzy.

“A rat he may be,” said Howie, “but Kevin should’ve told us everything.”

“But don’t you see how serious he is now?” asked Izzy.

Howie said nothing. He simply chewed.

“It just doesn’t seem fair,” Izzy continued. “Not fair at all. Kevin has gone to so many of my tournaments. And he gets bored out of his mind.”

Kevin nodded.

“Oh, they’re like little mini-vacations for us all,” said Maggie. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’d just like to be there for Kev and Cromwell, that’s all.”

“And that’s a lovely sentiment,” said Howie, rising and pushing in his chair noisily. “But I can’t let you quit on that team, Iz. Not
that
team, and not
any
team.” Howie jingled his keys. “We are not a family that quits, period. And besides—again, no disrespect to Cromwell here, because I respect what you’re doing—but you’ve got a chance to go all the way, kid. You’re gonna win that thing. Kev didn’t really seem too confident about his chances this Thursday.”

With that, Kevin’s eyes widened. He absently slipped down a step, thumping on the staircase. His family below seemed oblivious to the sound.

“Okay,” said his dad. “Gotta go. Big interview day today. Probably won’t be back till late.”

The back door opened and closed. Howie left the house whistling.

Kevin sat just below the middle step, his chin resting in his hands, his dog sitting behind him. Cromwell licked Kevin’s elbow.

Not that winning matters
, Kevin thought.
Not to Howie Pugh
.

He sat up, nudged his dog, and quietly went back upstairs.

T
he Midwest Kennel Club Championship crept up on Kevin, like a stealthy ninja. Kevin and Cromwell had yet another not-entirely-successful day of training with Elka. They never managed to complete her course in anything less than 52 seconds—and that was before various infractions were factored into their time. Elka remained patient, though Kevin couldn’t figure out why or how. At home, all the little 0:00:49.600’s he’d doodled seemed to mock him.